THEN I WENT TO BROADMEAD

On my way to the Anarchist Bookfair at St. Werburghs Community Centre, Horfield Road, I was approached, behind the plumbers merchants on Ashley Road, by a young boy carrying in one hand a sheet of paper and in the other a pen.
‘Hello,’ he said.
‘Yes?’ I said, seeing written on the paper he held out toward me a couple of names, addresses and amounts of money.
‘We’re doing a sponsored read at my school and I’m collecting sponsors...’
‘...and you want me to sponsor you?’
‘Yes.’
I thought a moment then said to this boy I’d not seen ever, ‘How will you collect the money or do you want me to give it to you now?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
I took out a pound coin, said, ‘Here, you can have a pound.’
‘Can you write your name down?’ he said, then added, indicating, ‘If you come over here you can rest the paper on the wall.’
‘It’s alright,’ I said, ‘I can do it here.’
Suspicious, I put only my initials, street name and what I gave him.
‘Thank you,’ he said when I said, ‘Here,’ giving him back the sheet of paper, ‘Good luck.’
At the fair, I bought a couple of pamphlets, being interested in the form, a weak cup of black coffee I eventually gave up on, and a vegan dal I ate whilst reading the event’s programme. I was sorry to miss, ‘The politics of mental health,’ a workshop given jointly by a service user and worker eleven that morning in the Bar room.
One more round of the stalls in the hall, bought a copy of Class War.
Then I went to Broadmead.